


Sniper Soldier Spy

by Roar_Ra



Series: Sniper Soldier Spy [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roar_Ra/pseuds/Roar_Ra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you told him that what happened was a mistake, that you don't have any feelings for me, that it happened in a grief stricken moment and he has nothing to fear—"</p><p>A sharp, pained laugh cuts me off. "Natasha, if I could tell him that, don't you think I would have by now?"</p><p>The air around us changes, heating with every step he takes towards me. I back up slowly.  "I'd better go." </p><p>He moves past me quickly and blocks the door. "No."</p><p>My heart leaps to my throat, pulse racing with fear and desire. I walk to his desk and lean against it for support. I look up and see Steve's reflection in the rain-streaked window in front of me. I watch as he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls them up over his muscular forearms. Strong fingers unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt and I work to keep by breathing even.</p><p>"I can't lie to Barton, or you, or myself anymore."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sniper Soldier Spy

Sniper Soldier Spy

Rating: NC-17! (If you thought 'Shattered' was bad, you ain't seen nothing yet!). Pairing: Clint/Natasha (though avid shippers be warned), Steve/ Natasha

What has gone before... Reading 'Shattered' is recommended, but not required. In short; Clint died, Natasha handled his death badly and ended up horizontal with Cap after he went after her. Clint remarkably came back to life, and no one told Clint what happened while he was gone.

  


**Sniper**

_He watches. Targets. Marks. Threats. Allies. And her._

_He watches her._

_A single task. A single goal; protect her. A new threat is brewing, one that he cannot solve with an arrow. Patience, strategy and distance are his friends, he continues to watch her, even as his motives change._

There's something about coming back from the dead that makes you think 'Everything, from this moment forward is going to be perfect.' I was so close to right... so close, and yet so far.

I stare at the objects in my hand. Rolling them across my knuckles, watching them appear and disappear. It's just couple of buttons, a couple of small grey buttons matching the color of Captain America's shirt. I can't help but recall how Rogers was picking some small bits off the roof last night while I was had Natasha in my arms. Can't help remembering how disheveled they both looked... How did our team leader lose all the buttons on his shirt while comforting Natasha over MY death?

I might have overlooked it, but then... last night as Nat and I were lying here on the roof, she fell asleep in my arms. She was exhausted – hadn't slept since my death a week ago. But the thing is, when Nat reaches a certain level of exhaustion, she sometimes talks in her sleep. At first she whispered my name and I smiled, brushing a calloused finger against her cheek. Then she murmured something that made my blood run cold. 'Steve- Please.' It didn't sound like a casual request, it sounded like a lover's plea. I want to believe that these are all just random coincidences, I want to believe that it means nothing. I really, really do.

I can't ask Natasha, I'll sound like a jealous fool. And besides she'll probably gut with a spork for mentioning anything having to do with emotions- it's really not her strong suit.

The quinjet will be here to take us back to Manhattan soon, I should just leave it the hell alone.

"Clint? You there?"

"Up here Cap."

I watch with a touch of envy as he gracefully ascends the stairs to the roof. He's the perfect soldier, not even a little out of breath after running up 30 flights of stairs, and, thanks to the serum running through his veins, he'll probably never age, or at least the process is slowed down till it makes almost no difference, just like Nat... Is the mutual physical perfection and immortality why she might have...  _Stop jumping to conclusions Barton._

"Fury just called. They're ahead of schedule, so we're headed back to New York in an hour. How are you holding up?" The concern in his face makes me feel like a jerk.

"Pretty good for a dead man, right?" My tone and smile feels forced. Steve notices, and looks at me quizzically. "Steve... What happened when you went to the club to retrieve Nat last night?"

Steve looks surprised and a flash of worry crosses his face before he composes it and frowns. I don't like this at all.

Without giving him a chance to reply, I toss him the two buttons. "I found these. Do they belong to you?"

He shrugs uncomfortably. "Looks like, I wonder how I lost them."

"I wonder how you lost them it in my bed?"

He looks at me sharply. "Clint, are you accusing me of something?" His normally good-humored voice changes, it's lower, more dangerous.

I have to be honest with him, and hope he returns the favor. "What happened when you went to extract Nat last night?"

"She was out of her mind with grief; acting crazy! Do you think I would take advantage of her at a time like that?" He seems so affronted, I blush.

What am I thinking? It's hardly any evidence at all really. Just a few buttons and a sleepy whisper. Pull yourself together, Barton.

He turns his back to me and I reach out and clasp his shoulder in apology. "Sorry Cap, I don't' know why but this, combined with something she said in her sleep last night... It's been eating at me."

Steve shrugs away from my hand with a slight wince of pain. Something is wrong with his shoulder. I look closer and see a set of indentations on his neck.

No.

I wish I hadn't done that. I suddenly wish I'd never found those buttons, never heard her moan his name, never touched his shoulder and most of all NEVER seen the set of four indents on the side of his neck – I know those marks because I've seen them on the necks of men through a snipers lens more times than I'd like to count.

Without thinking, I tear the material of his shirt, exposing his shoulder and my world is upended. I stagger back as I see the bloody lines marring his shoulder and down his back.

I know those scratches, Natasha's fingernails. Glaring evidence of their betrayal.

"Bastard." The horrified whisper is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

"Clint? Please..." Cap tries to talk me down, speaking gently, he's backing away slowly.

"What did you do to her?" It takes every iota of self-control to keep the words from becoming a scream.

His eyes widen in shock. "Barton, you're jumping to wild conclusions here-"

"Fuck you Captain, I know those marks!"

His eyes flash darkly. "Don't do this, Hawkeye."

"I need to know the truth Cap, if you were ever my team mate, our leader or my friend, you need to tell me the truth NOW!"

He punches the door in frustration, the metal bends, leaving a perfect fist-print. "We were both out of our minds with grief, Clint. It was about consolation, comfort."

"So this is the new Avenger's grief-counseling policy!"

"Please let me explain-"

"NO! How can you explain the fact you couldn't even wait till my corpse cooled to jump into bed -  _my bed! –_ with MY partner."

"It wasn't like that –"

I can't listen to him any longer. Can't deal with the mental picture of them together.

Taking my coat, I dash down stairs. Nat is still sleeping in the other room, my heart aches looking at her. Part of me wants to shake her and demand she leave with me at once... Part of me is afraid she'll say no and stay with them – with HIM.

I'm too close, I can't see this objectively. I need distance, I need to get out of here.

  


**The Soldier:**

_The soldier deals in conflict, battle, war. Show no weakness. Win._

World War II was the most horrific loss of American life in history, and for him, it's not a recent, not distant memory. The ideals were what got him through; to realize they've been forgotten, perverted... He does the only thing he can. He fights. He fights punching bags, thugs, aliens and neighborhood drug dealers. He used to take pleasure in the occasional thankful female... Until her. Now even that release has been taken from him. She has ruined him, he wonders how many other men she let live, as good as dead after the widows bite. He takes a drink and stares into the fire. Waiting. The alcohol does not burn his insides, the thought of her does.

  


**The Spy:**

_The spy deals in the devil's details. The spy works human emotions and failings. Find a weakness and exploit it. The spy cannot afford to love._

It's been a week since Hawkeye left. Every hour he's gone - knowing why he's gone - is agony unlike any I've allowed myself to feel before.

I need to find a way to convince Clint that my grief-stricken night with Cap meant nothing and I'm his completely. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to convince him. I'm not sure that I can convince myself...

Pull yourself together Romanov, you've managed to remain emotionally detached for nearly 70 years, now suddenly you're compromised over not one, but  _two_ men. Stop thinking with your heart and just fix the goddamn problem.

Which brings me here, standing at Steve's door, an old brownstone in Brooklyn in the pouring rain, trying to summon the strength to knock. I don't want to but I don't have a choice. I'm desperate, and there's no one else to turn to.

I've managed to avoid Rogers pretty skillfully for the past ten days; he seems uncomfortable around me too. Whenever we see each other in passing, he looks at me so strangely, a surprised glance followed by something dark and raw. It makes my knees go weak just thinking of the intensity in those eyes.

I love Clint, he's my partner, my rock, my... Everything. So why do I keep dreaming of another man?

The heavy oak door opens, interrupting my thoughts. He is outlined against the warm glow inside.

"Are you planning on staying out there all night?"

That suddenly sounds like a really good idea. I can't do this. I start to turn away, but he catches my sleeve and guides me inside.

"Come in. You're going to catch your death out there." He ushers me inside and tosses a pillow in front of the roaring fireplace and gestures for me to sit.

"What are you doing here, Natasha?" His voice seems unusually gruff and thick.

"I need to talk to you."

"I assume it's concerning the same thing I've been needing to talk to you about for the past week." He stares at me pointedly. "But you've been avoiding me like the plague."

I flush in shame. "Barton knows... It's why he left."

"Yes. He confronted me a week ago. Apparently you talk in your sleep."

My eyes widen in horror.

"I tried to convince him he was off-base, but he knew.'" He hands me the towel, I take it and dry my hair, trying to ignore the smell of his skin on the material.

He walks over to the bar. "Would you like a drink? I'm afraid I don't have any vodka, but I keep some scotch around for company."

Interesting to think that the Cap entertains. He's a single American bachelor, I shouldn't be as surprised as I am. "No thanks. I have to go soon."

He pours a glass of amber liquid and I can't help admiring his lips as they touch the heavy crystal glass. "I've been watching you standing at my door for the last 20 minutes. Were you ever going to knock?'

I honestly don't know the answer to that question, so I stay silent.

"Here, have a sip." He hands me the glass. "It will warm you."

His gaze is doing that already, but I say nothing. I take the glass and manage a swallow of scotch – not bad. I take a second sip imagining I can taste his lips on the crystal.

Oh God, this was a mistake. I have to go, now. "This was a bad idea, Captain, I should go." I put down the glass and head for the study door.

"Stop right there." His voice paralyzes me. "Please Natasha, say what you came to say." His voice softens slightly, but there is something dark and dangerous in his usually gentle demeanor.

Fight or flight response is telling me to run away as far and fast as I possibly can - or to shoot him. Remember why you're here Natasha. "I need to talk to you about what happened that night, and about Barton."

He frowns slightly.

"It's my fault Steve, I know that. I was in pain and I used you. I may never regain Clint's trust, but at least I can apologize to you."

He studies his drink carefully. "An apology. Sure, Agent Romanov,  _that's_ what I want."

I rush to continue. "Barton...He left because he's in agony over what happened between us. I need to reassure him, but I don't think it's going to be enough."

He looks at me with coldly. "What do you want, Natasha?"

Poor Steve, what have I done to him to make this sweet, sincere guy into this icy creature radiating anger and frustration... Add this to your list of great deeds Romanov. He hates me, I'm sure of it now. That almost makes things easier, because this is the hard part, asking these two team mates to come together again.. "If you told him that what happened was a mistake, that you don't have any feelings for me, that it happened in a grief stricken moment and he has nothing to fear—"

A sharp, pained laugh cuts me off. "Natasha, if I could tell him that, don't you think I would have by now?"

And there it is. The truth. The one I couldn't admit to myself, raw and open between us. Waiting for a time like this to ooze through the cracks in the fragile walls we've built around ourselves, bringing them crumbling down around our feet.

The air around us changes, heating with every step he takes towards me. I back up slowly.

"I'd better go." He moves past me quickly and blocks the door. "No."

Normally I'd have any man who kept me from an exit disemboweled in less than 30 seconds. But this is Captain America after all... It would probably take more like two minutes. But I'm unwilling to hurt Steve in order to leave. And he knows this, I'm burned by the heat of his stare as he locks the study door, the snick of the deadbolt echoes loudly in my head.

Trapped. My heart leaps to my throat, pulse racing with fear and desire. I walk to his desk and lean against it for support. I look up and see Steve's reflection in the rain-streaked window in front of me. I watch as he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls them up over his muscular forearms. Strong fingers unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt and I work to keep by breathing even.

"I can't lie to Barton, or you, or myself anymore."

I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hands. I can't think, can't fight, can't run.

I'm horrified by my body's response, a warm flush. I want this. Spies don't get emotionally compromised, but I want this. I WANT this, and it terrifies me.

His breath is hot and heavy in my ear as his hands move up my arms and circle my neck. He pulls me back till my body is flush against his. Oh God. He is so hard against me. Instinctively, my body melts against his, my head falls back against his chest.

A sigh of victory escapes his lips as he turns me to face him. "Tell me to stop." Piercing blue eyes search desperately for an answer.

"I...I can't do...this...Barton-"

His mouth descends on mine. He holds my chin in his hand and forces his tongue in to my mouth, as the other hand pulls my jacket from my shoulder. I moan into his mouth involuntarily. He breaks the kiss and turns me to face our reflection in the window.

"Clint doesn't love you - he worships you from afar, that's what he does, he watches things. He's put you on a pedestal, an odd pedestal to be sure – as long as sex is just part of the mission it's not sex. But now he hates you for falling off of it, for being human, as human as I am anyway." A pained laugh.

Why is he doing this? Why is he tormenting me with the truths and half-truths I don't want to hear? I choke back an angry cry and look down at the desk. His whispers continue.

"I cherish every part of you, Natasha. The spy, the warrior, the widow, the grieving lover, the wanton." With this last word, he reaches down my shirt, cupping my swollen breast possessively. I gasp as his fingers pinch my nipple, feeling it harden under the rough caress. "Especially the wanton," he whispers.

"Oh my God." This is no longer the sweet, grieving, guilt-ridden Captain America who comforted me. This man knows exactly what he wants from me. And he's determined to get it. I watch in the window as his fingers unbutton my shirt. I'm trapped by my own weakness. I need him to touch me more that I've ever wanted anything. A wanton in the truest sense of the word. My shirt falls to my feet. He unclasps my bra and slides it down my arms, leaving my breasts bare as he admires them in the window's reflection.

I want him to touch them, but instead he grips my arms above the elbows and pulls me to him. I gasp as I feel his erection, huge and hard against my ass and lower back.

"I've been waiting for you, Natasha. Oh god, how I've been patient." He whispers, his voice hoarse. "And now you've come to me."

"This...This isn't why I came." My voice is pleading. I can't remember why I came here anymore.

"No." His earnest blue eyes cut through all of my defenses. "But it's why you'll stay."

Tears threaten as I realize he's right. The decision, if I ever had one, has been made. Abandoned by my partner, I'm now trapped by a dark passion I can neither deny nor control.

I turn, moving my fingers along the buttons of his shirt. His powerful chest is soon exposed to me. I run my hands reverently along the smooth, perfectly sculpted expanse. I reach for his belt buckle, my hand sliding over the bulge in his SHIELD issue pants.

His hands suddenly fly from his sides and grab my wrists. A small cry escapes my lips.

What does he want from me? Sex? Escape? Redemption? Love? And can I give him any of those things without losing myself in the process?

He places my hands on the desk behind us. Kneeling in front of me, he rips at the buttons of my jeans. Yanking the offending garment down off my hips and over my shaking legs. He strips me quickly, till I am completely exposed to him. He kisses my thighs and bites the soft flesh lightly.

He rises and looks down at me, every part of me bared to his hungry eyes. He strokes my hair gently. "Natasha, you are so exquisite, so perfect —"

His gentle words give no warning of his next action. His fingers bite into my skin as lifts me toward sofa, tossing me on it like a rag-doll. I look up at him, shocked, a little frightened and aroused beyond words.

"I promised myself if you came back to me, I'd give you what you deserve."

What I deserve? I try to scramble off the couch, but he subdues me easily. Pushing my legs apart and kneeling between them, he pushes me back against the couch.

"Don't move, Agent Romanov." An order I dare not disobey.

His hands skim over my torso lightly, barely touching me. I need him to touch me, I need more, I need him, his anger, his passion and his love. Whatever he demands in return I will give willingly.

As thoroughly as inventorying a plan of attack, Steve catalogs the source of my every pleasure with his tongue. His lips find my swollen clit and he slides it between his teeth. White-hot pleasure consumes me, forcing a tormented moan from my lips. Holding still becomes impossible and my hips rotate against him. "Please, I.. I need to—"

"To what?" His blue eyes bore into mine forcing the words from my unwilling throat.

"To come." I whisper, "Please Steve, I want you to make me come."

He gives a short chuckle of victory. Then he takes the swollen nub between his lips and sucks hard.

I explode, I dig my fingers into his scalp as the world around me ceases to exist. As the spasms subside and I float back to reality, I'm struck by a sudden realization. If Clint needs to watch and protect me, then Steve needs to possess me.

And some warped part of me wants both men to have their wish.

Cap quickly undresses himself as I shiver with anticipation. He opens the trousers and boxers, freeing his huge and throbbing cock.

He gathers me in his arms, supporting my ass with one hand, and holding the back of my neck with the other. I can hear his ragged breathing over the pounding of my own heart. My legs wrap around his waist and he positions me above him. Waiting.

"Tell me you want me." His eyes are hungry and begging.

"Yes." My voice is quivers with desire. I need him inside me more than I need oxygen.

"Say it, Natasha!" How does he make it sound like an order and a plea at the same time?

"Yes! Steve, I want you!" The words are torn from my throat.

With a desperate cry he lowers me on to his cock, driving it inside me. Oh god, he's huge! Filling me so completely I whimper in pleasure and pain. Harder and harder he works me, working my slight frame back and forth on his cock, lifting me off till I moan with disappointment, then forcing me back down on the full length of his organ. I'm so distracted by the jarring explosions of pleasure I barely realize he has my head tilted back and is forcing his tongue in my mouth. My body feels taut and weightless, forced down on his shaft again and again until with a final indecent cry, my orgasm overtakes me. Oh God, it feels like it's never going to stop! He has me wrapped tightly in this embrace, and just when I feel the waves of pleasure start to ebb, he drives his orgasm into me groaning deeply, his hips suddenly thrust in a series of deep frenzied, jerking movements, his orgasm re-igniting mine. It seems impossible for him to still be standing after that, but he is, cradling me easily in his arms, still sheathed in my body, the occasional spasms of his cock make me whimper.

He waits till I stop shaking, then he lays me out on the rug before the fireplace and curls up behind me. We watch the fire while his fingers trail along the slopes and curves of my side reverently, a strange counterpoint to his brutal seduction. "My girl." His whisper is so soft I don't think he meant for me to hear it. Regardless, I cannot tell him what he wants to hear so I remain silent.

"Stay with me tonight... Please." My throat closes.

He seems to take my silence as assent and rises, lifting me in his arms. Effortlessly he carries me to his bedroom. I try to protest, but he covers my lips with a finger. "Shhh. Tomorrow. We'll get this all sorted out tomorrow." He kisses me as we reach his bedroom. He slides me under the covers and quickly joins me. He turns me on my side and molds his large frame to my small one. His breath slows and evens out as he falls in to a deep sleep.

I'm glad I'm facing away from him, I'm glad he can't see the silent tears running down my cheeks.

A terrible crushing realization has dawned too late, I'm in love with Steve Rogers, and even worse, I'm pretty sure he loves me too.

  


**Sniper**

Tears indistinguishable from rain on his cheeks, the sniper on his perch peers through the windows of the brownstone, observing his love in the arms of another man. Hawkeye emerges from his snipers crouch. The time for watching is over.

Finis

  


Thanks to Ink-and- Ash and DJ Liopleurodon for all their awesome feedback and beta work.

Where do we go from here? Or should I just leave them all angsty… I'm taking feedback into consideration as to how this should fall out. I swear I'm really a clint/nat shipper at heart – I have no idea why I needed to torture him like this, the muse made me do it!


End file.
